The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  “A propos, Philippe. Your so dear friend has been talking about you!”

  “Which so dear friend?” asked Philip. “Jules, if you maintain in the face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in the matter of—”

  “But attend!” insisted the Vicomte. “The Englishman—the Bancroft—peste, what a name for my tongue!”

  Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

  “Bancroft? What does he say of me?”

  “A great deal, if all I hear is true.”

  Philip set down his glass.

  “Indeed! Now, what might you have heard, De Ravel?”

  “It would appear that ce cher Bancroft feels no love for you, mon pauvre. If De Graune is to be believed, he resents your presence here. He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad.”

  “Yes,” said Philip. He frowned. “Very sad. But what does he say?”

  “He divulges your close-guarded secret,” said the Vicomte solemnly.

  “Oh!” Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. “It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft. Continue, Charles!”

  “He speaks of a lady in ‘Leetle Feeteldean’ who has blue, blue eyes, and—”

  “Shall we pass over her eyes?” smiled Philip.

  “But certainly! Her hair—”

  “And her hair? In fact, shall we pass over all her attractions?”

  “He is very much in love,” loudly whispered De Bergeret.

  Philip flashed a smile at him.

  “Very much, Jules. Proceed, Vicomte.”

  The Vicomte sipped his wine.

  “M. Bancroft, he told of your—ah—infatuation. He described the lady—oh, fully!”

  The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly compressed. Philip nodded.

  “Allons! Allons!”

  “Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-hells amuse you?” asked Saint-Dantin sharply.

  But the Vicomte was a mischief-loving soul. He disregarded the rebuke.

  “A pretty piece, he called her, but no more than a simple country wench. By name—”

  “Oh, have done!” exclaimed Saint-Dantin impatiently.

  “But no!” Philip waved him aside. “I am very interested in what M’sieur has to say.”

  “By name, Cléone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love with him for his beaux yeux and his so charming manner.”

  “Ah!” Philip’s chin sank into his cupped palms. “Et puis?”

  “It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, ‘What of the pretty Cléone?’ he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he wearied of her as of all others.”

  Saint-Dantin’s crisp voice cut into the sudden silence.

  “Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived in his duel with Mardry last month. A—”

  “I will ask Paul to show me that pass,” said Philip. He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his interrupted discussion with De Bergeret.

  Afterwards Saint-Dantin took him aside.

  “Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is incorrigible!”

  “On the contrary, I am grateful to him,” replied Philip. “I might not have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow’s mouth.”

  “How?” asked Saint-Dantin blankly.

  Philip made an imaginary pass in the air.

  “Short of killing him,” objected Saint-Dantin, “I don’t see—”

  “Kill him? Not I! I may count on you to—uphold me?”

  “Of course. But what do you mean to do?”

  “First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my lady’s name in public.”

  Saint-Dantin nodded.

  “I’ll vouch for those here to-night.”

  “Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send François to administer a little beating. It is well.”

  The Comte laughed outright.

  “Oh, Philippe, thou art a young hot-head! Is this Cléone of so great account?”

  Philip drew himself up.

  “She is the lady whom I hope one day to make my wife.”

  “Comment? Your wife? Ah, voyons! Cela change l’affaire! I did not know that. Stop his talk, by all means.”

  “It’s what I am going to do,” said Philip. “Scélérat!”

  “With a vile taste for pink, hein? You’ll call upon me?”

  “If you please. And, I think, De Bergeret.”

  “Saint-Dantin, a wager!” called De Vangrisse. “What are you talking of so earnestly?”

  “Of pink coats,” answered Philip. “Oh, my rondeau! Where is it?”

  “Devil take your rondeau!” cried the Vicomte. “Come and hazard a throw with me.”

  “A l’instant!” Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread out the parchment. “I insist that you shall listen to this product of my brain!” He mounted a chair amid derisive cheers, and bowed right and left in mock solemnity. “To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.

  “Cette petite perle qui tremblotte

  An bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte

  Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin.

  A l’air à la fois modeste et coquin,

  Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote.

  “A regarder c’est toute une gavotte

  Où l’on s’avance, se penche, et pivote,

  Lors que tu branles d’un movement fin

  Cette petite perle.

  “C’est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte—

  Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte—

  Un feu follet qui hors de mon chemin

  M’attire, m’éblouit, m’égare—”

  Philip paused for his final effect. Arose Saint-Dantin, and like a flash interjected:

  “Enfin,

  Elle m’embête—saperlipopette!—

  Cette petite perle.”

  Outraged, Philip threw the parchment at his head.

  NINE

  MR. BANCROFT IS ENRAGED

  PHILIPPE, DO you go to De Farraud’s to-night?” asked De Bergeret suddenly. He was lounging on the couch in Philip’s room, watching Philip adjust his patches.

  “De Farraud’s? I’d not thought of it. Whom shall I meet there?”

  “Your very obedient,” said De Bergeret, flourishing his hat.

  “The prospect does not entice me,” answered Philip. “No, don’t retort! Don’t speak. Don’t move!” He leaned forward, shifting a candle to throw its light on his face, and frowned at his reflection. The white hand that held the haresfoot wavered an instant, and then alighted at the corner of his mouth. Philip sat back, studying the effect.

  “Whom else shall I meet, Jules?”

  “The usual people, I fancy. And some others, no doubt.”

  “De Farraud’s friends are so very mixed,” deplored Philip. “Do you suppose that De Chambert will be present?”

  “Nothing is more certain,” yawned De Bergeret. “But it will be amusing, and the play will be high, which is all that matters.”

  “But De Chambert wears puce small-clothes,” objected Philip.

  “Does he? Mordieu, I’d like to see that! Puce small-clothes, forsooth! And what does our Philippe wear?”

  Philip glanced lovingly down at his pearl-grey breeches.

  “Grey, and palest pink, with lacings of silver.” He slipped out of his gaily-hued robe, and stood up.

  De Bergeret levelled his eyeglass at him.

  “Parbleu, Philippe! Grey lace!”

  Philip shook out his ruffles.

  “A sweet conceit, hein? But wait! François, my vest!”

  His valet brought it, and he